


Out of the Weeds

by PurpleProsaist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Autism, Autistic Sam, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, One Shot, Prompt Fill, Purple Prose, Stimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 08:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleProsaist/pseuds/PurpleProsaist
Summary: Frodo alone can always pull Sam's head out of the weeds.





	Out of the Weeds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Illegible_Scribble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/gifts).



> ... who was kind enough to indulge in this autism spectrum headcanon with me when it weaseled its way into this. (Go read their works; you won't regret it!) 
> 
> prompt: kiss on the back of the neck + Samfro

His Gaffer liked to tell him he always has his head in the clouds. 

At the moment, however, Sam's head is in the weeds. 

Specifically, the novel, wavy-leafed things which had, so far this Spring, spread themselves like as gossip over the fields and hills of Hobbiton. This is the second time they have spilled into the garden at Bag End: brash, cocky beings harboring ill misconceptions after where they have the right to drop their seeds. 

If not for that sense of greedy entitlement, Sam might feel more sympathetic to their plight. A weed, after all, is not an inherently evil plant, but rather any plant where it ought not to be. This is only the second year Sam has seen this particular plant root in the Shire. At first, it was merely a sparse and peculiar — although pleasant — accent to the indigenous flora, one that some even adopted as a ruffled trim to their yards. Then they began flowering, and as of late, producing sharp burrs. Sam reckons they'd migrated from one of the many lands down South where folk are wont to wear shoes. 

They had not been granted any leave to enter the garden either. Sam's train of thought is broken by his own labored grunt as a particularly stubborn one finally looses its taproot. _These..._ These in particular have taken up residence in the vegetable rows. Young basal leaves spread, lolling in luxurious ease, blocking all light from every sproutling under one sprawling abstract mass. 

_These monsters._ Daring to stifle what he had so lovingly sown. 

Sam discards the wadded handful of green in the pile beside him. Then he digs his fingers and clenches his fist, dexterously tangling into the next weed. He pulls with a learned, surgical determination, though a fire surges in his eyes. 

There's a painful tug somewhere vague within the space between his shoulder and neck. 

It's instant impulse to reach up and behind his head and prod about. He might not actually locate it, Sam knows, although it's merely a subconscious musing. His original task has already begun to distract him again; in direct illustration of his nebulous thought, he is eying the remaining weeds intently. It is imperative he finishes this task before the burrs spring up. 

Imperative to Frodo's poor feet. 

Shaking his head (much harder than necessary, reveling in the way it stretches the sore muscle, and the brief rush of air past his ears), Sam slouches over the plants, reaches towards the next. 

His fingers are caught by four more, slimmer, softer. He recognizes them immediately: _Frodo._

Before Sam has the chance to turn, a butterfly-faint kiss lands on his nape, so near to the pain he had just been reaching at that the whole of his being is deluged by a bubbling giddiness. 

The sunset has woven a copper nimbus from the edges of Frodo's hair. In an instant, Sam can feel again the crisp evening breeze, flowing over his skin and tousling his hair and clothes. Frodo has knelt beside Sam in that peculiar (although pleasant) way of his where only his toes and the balls of his feet touch the ground, and he speaks with a facetious air of nonchalance, "How long have you been out here, Sam-love?" 

"Oh," though embarrassment slightly wavers his reply, a stalwart faith, steeled by the kindness Sam now finds in Frodo's expectant gaze, keeps him from hesitation, "well I s'pose I started out here 'round noontime today..." 

"Hm," Frodo offers conversationally. "If you're ready to come inside yet, I could get out some oils, untangle this knot for you." He releases Sam's hand then to slide his fingertips under Sam's collar, locating the aforementioned with deft ease. Already, he begins kneading light circles there. 

With the inevitable escape of a sighing hum, Sam wonders not for the first time if Frodo, ever studious in nature, knows his body better than he himself does. Might even have maps. 

"I've been hunched over the parchment all day myself," Frodo looks Sam dead in the eye at this. Sam knows the game — one of intentfully selected truths — Frodo is playing, and Frodo is aware that Sam knows it as well. (A common game it is, and a long-held understanding.) 

Frodo, however, is likely oblivious to just how treacherously he's playing, and to how long he'd been doing so. The two hold each other's eye contact for a moment: something Sam had learned to fake well early on. For it was necessary decorum when conversing, but looking so directly into another's soul had always felt too intimate to him. For that reason, Sam had always watched everyone's eyebrows — everyone's except Frodo's. He recalls years spent staring into the deep blue (bright and built up from layer upon layer of Frodo's soul) from a customary distance, feeling as reproachable as though he were staring into the Sun, his own innocent naughty secret. Indeed, they had been playing games long before Frodo had been aware of it. 

In an instant Sam wonders if telling Frodo now might possibly bring a smile to his face. 

"And," Frodo adds softly, "I've missed you dearly." 

Frodo alone can always pull Sam's head out of the weeds. So when he stands and offers Sam his hand, Sam lets him do just that. 

The remainder of the task Sam leaves behind him, for tomorrow. As he stoops by the spigot to rinse his hands, Frodo continues on to the door where he disappears with a needlessly discreet wink. The water blends with the soil caked over callused palms, and sloughs it off as thick mud. _Good Shire soil,_ like none other in the world: rich earthen-ebon and fine as a quality satin, slips softly between his fingers. Enfolded within it is always the silent, alluring mantra of _home... home..._ that enchants Sam to his inmost core. 

No less enchanting is the promise, tangibly aloft upon the air (or at least in that which Sam breathes), of the night before him. Frodo had already offered to work out one knot. If Sam knows him, he will take on the rest as well; and Sam would not be himself if he didn't return the favor and more, something he anticipates with an equal ardor. These days, such tender touches are no rarity and can lead to a number of places, each of them reveries beyond what Sam had once considered unfathomable pipe dreams. It's this specific ambiguity that never fails to set his blood aflame. Sometimes, as now, Sam imagines he can feel it burning, warming, in his every vein. Always rushes his face first; he can feel the blush himself it's so hot, so poignant against the evening chill, and he snorts (a stifled but gleeful chortle) at his own predictability. 

When he steps into Bag End, Frodo will be awaiting him. Then they will have, to share between them, hours upon end in the deep blue (a darkness that is not Shadow) to love, and to relax, bodies and limbs entwined for the sheer joy of closeness, and Frodo's heart a candent constant beat for Sam to ground his every sense in. A time to whisper his long-held secrets into Frodo's ears, and to run his hands through Frodo's hair — earthen-ebon, soft as fine satin between Sam's fingers. 

The water slows then stops. He stands to dry his hands, shaking them out (much harder than necessary, droplets flung in every direction), before heading towards the door without even considering to watch his step.

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely hope this was up to your standards, Illegible_Scribble! ♥ If there's anything at all you'd like changed, huge or tiny, please don't hesitate to let me know! 
> 
> & anyone else too, I hope you enjoyed! And I hope that if you did or didn't you might let me know. Honest feedback is a psycho-creative fuel. 
> 
> Sam wouldn't yet be familiar enough with the plant to know this here, but: Burdock (the inspo-plant for the weeds in this story) might be combatted with vinegar. Pour some down the stem on a hot day. Alternatively, the roots can be pickled & eaten!


End file.
